


The Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up

by zade



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sappy, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:43:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4058731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zade/pseuds/zade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He liked Murphy.  He couldn’t pinpoint any rational reason, but he liked him, and felt personally wronged when Murphy fucked up, because Murphy was supposed to prove that he was good enough for Bellamy to like.  “We could always call you Johnny,” Bellamy replied with a grin, knocking back of mouthful of what should probably only be used as paint-thinner.</p>
<p>written for the prompt murphamy, with the quote: “Don’t listen to them. Don’t you EVER listen to them,” and inexplicably Peter Pan themed</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for: mild suicidal ideation/feels, alcohol use bc of feels, ptsd, insecurities, self esteem issues, and Clarke is a little OOC in this but to be fair she was going through a lot
> 
> i hope you like it!
> 
> beta'd by [hateboners](http//:www.hateboners.tumblr.com)

Finn, in a moment of pure and perfect altruism, had rescued the booze and brought it to Camp Jaha, where he had liberated the booze, giving the remaining handful of delinquents something better to do with their mouths than snap at each other.

Murphy, especially, seemed to be enjoying the sabbatical from yelling, drinking heavily, perched like a bird at Clarke’s table, like she wanted him there, like he wasn’t getting in the way of her and Finn’s whatever. He was smirking lazily, drinking and drinking until his hands stopped shaking, every few minutes surreptitiously looking at Bellamy and chugging. The correlation was immediately obvious.

Looking at Bellamy made Murphy want to be drunk, which made sense, because looking at Murphy made Bellamy want to be sick.

Bellamy honestly couldn’t remember what about Murphy’s company he had sought out, or even tolerated, in those early days. He was arrogant, annoying, young, and had painfully low self-esteem. Bellamy didn’t want to think of himself as the kind of man who would use anyone or anything for his own advantage, but his partnership with Murphy implied otherwise.

Murphy sauntered over to him, hips moving liquid, lubricated with alcohol and lacking the pained stutter his joints usually bore since his three days of torture. “I hate my name,” he said, and sat across from Bellamy like he had been invited.

Ah yes, that was it. He liked Murphy. He couldn’t pinpoint any rational reason, but he liked him, and felt personally wronged when Murphy fucked up, because Murphy was supposed to prove that he was good enough for Bellamy to like. “We could always call you Johnny,” Bellamy replied with a grin, knocking back of mouthful of what should probably only be used as paint-thinner.

Murphy rolled his eyes and let his hands rest on the makeshift table, only centimeters from Bellamy’s, but they both knew he wouldn’t close the gap. “Finn has started doing it, it’s the worst. And Jaha’s calling me John because he thinks he’s the messiah and doesn’t have to listen to people when they tell him that men who murdered their parents don’t get to call them John.”

Bellamy knew the feeling. He would give anything for Jaha to call him Blake. “And Murphy is out of the question because…?”

Murphy leaned over, body stretched obscenely as he reached for the pitcher of alcohol, rolling his shoulders as he placed it on their table. He let Bellamy refill his cup. “Everyone hung and banished Murphy. Murphy is a murderer. I’m ready to be something else, maybe.”

Bellamy swallowed the entire cupful and poured another. Murphy was arrogant, annoying, young, and so painfully insecure. He wanted to fix him, to make him better. He wanted to justify his like of the boy. The alcohol, he thought, as the world spun around him, was beginning to take effect. “Initials, maybe?”

Murphy scoffed. “JM? Yeah, that sure rolls off the tongue.”

Bellamy grinned in spite of himself, taken in by Murphy’s reluctance to be impressed. “Like J.M. Barrie. Who wrote Peter Pan?” His mother had read it to him, and he had read it Octavia so many times when she was a little girl, especially after the artificial gravity had glitched once, and she had actually flown.

Murphy frowned slightly. “The boy who never grew up. My mom used to read it to me, when I was little.” He knocked back the cup, pouring himself another before the cup had even hit the table. “Do you think I’ve grown, yet?”

Bellamy, unsure of what to say, nursed this drink, taking small sips. Murphy deemed this the wrong answer and scoffed again, rising to his feet unsteadily, even as he polished off his newest drink.

“All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust,” he quoted easily. Then, “goodbye, Bellamy Blake,” he said with a slight slur, saluting to Bellamy and bowing as he backed away.

“Hey, J.M. Barrie!” Murphy spun around, fixing Bellamy with one of those terrible tragic and desperate looks he kept in his pocket for moments like this, when he needed Bellamy to feel the true weight of his sorrow. He realized, embarrassed, that most of the people gathered around him turned when he called, that they were watching him call to Murphy from several yards away. “Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting,” he quoted back.

Murphy grinned, bright and wide and so vulnerable Bellamy felt sick. He spun around, nimbly drunk and jogged off.

Octavia slid into the seat that Murphy had vacated. “What the fuck was that, Bell? Peter Pan?”

“Leave it, O,” he said, locking eyes with his cup. Peripherally, he saw her shrug and pour herself another glass.

She shrugged again. “Be careful, is all.”

He’s not sure what he can help, when it came to Murphy. Murphy made him angry and affectionate in waves, passionate and reckless. “Don’t worry about me.”

She rolled her eyes, but nudged him, demonstratively drunk. He let her lean into him, close and familiar, and tried not to think of how nice it was to have Murphy smile because of him.

The next day, there was a water fight.

It was Bellamy’s idea, really, because he couldn’t stand watching Clarke and Finn stand awkwardly in front of each other, not speaking, for another second. So he had swung by the makeshift workshop, grabbed Raven, and headed out of the camp.

On the Ark, where water supplies were precious, the showers were home to many a water fight, and here, on earth, they were directly next to a lake, so Bellamy was pretty sure he could shut down whatever arguments the adults came up with. Bellamy had barely had to suggest the idea to Raven before she was dragging him to the lake (but only after she had found Octavia and whispered something to her).

She smiled as she filled leather bags and plastic buckets with water. “So what prompted this?”

Bellamy smirked, flicking water at her. “Finn and Clarke are going to give me an ulcer.” He paused, suddenly. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

She splashed him harder, laughing at his indignant look. “Don’t. Let’s just pummel them with water. It’ll be therapeutic.”

Hauling and hiding all the water took them the majority of an hour, and Bellamy caught dirty looks from Kane and Abby more than once. The adults frowned at them, but couldn’t really tell them to stop. After all, water was plentiful here, and all of them had argued that the kids should act like kids.

Raven slapped his shoulder, surveying their arsenal. “I’m gonna draw Clarke and Finn over, you direct Octavia to the water, okay?”  
Raven ambled off, returning with Clarke and Finn in tow, and Bellamy, sneaking from behind, ambushed Clarke and Finn (and Wick, although that was more accidental) with a torrential flood of water. Wick reacted first, jogging towards the water stash, and laughing as a brawl started, with Octavia and Lincoln pelting them with water from above.

Bellamy was laughing, easily euphoric, as Clarke tried to shield her face and escape the impromptu war. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much fun. Cackling and pushing his wet hair out of his face, Bellamy turned to see Murphy, leaning up against the shell of the Ark, dry, and vaguely sad.

He shook his hair like a dog and walked off towards Murphy. Raven and Clarke were too busy fighting off Finn and Wick’s combined assault, but he felt Octavia’s eyes on the back of his head. He ignored her, sauntered off, grabbing a bag still full with water, and doubled back around the Ark, and circling around behind Murphy.

“Hey, Barrie,” he called, smirking as Murphy turned around, baffled, and came face to face with a bucket of water.

Murphy squawked, shaking his arms like a bird. “You better start running, Blake!” He cried, and launched himself at Bellamy, who threw himself out of the way and tried to roll.

They both ended up on the ground, Bellamy shoving to get the upper hand, but Murphy was wiry strong, and pinned him, both of them breathless and muddy and grinning. “Got you,” he said, and planted a muddy thumbprint on Bellamy’s nose.

Bellamy smiled sharply, sharklike, wrapped his ankle around Murphy’s legs and flipped him. As Murphy fell, he saw the panic in his face, the slight widening of his eyes and leaned into him, cradling him through it, and once they landed he was so close to Murphy they could have kissed.

Murphy’s breathing came in quick gasps and Bellamy laughed, breathy, in his face. “Not quite.” He pushed himself up, off of Murphy, and glanced behind him to where the battle was winding down, locking eyes with Octavia, who was giving him a disapproving look.

He walked off towards her, glancing back only once at Murphy, who was lying still, boneless, in the sloppy embrace of the mud. He sighed, but didn’t move. Bellamy kept walking, but smiled when he realized he could hear Murphy begin to laugh.

Clarke ambushed Murphy early the next day, Finn fast on her heels. They two of them weren’t really talking, yet, but Finn had apparently decided his best chance was just to follow her like a lost dog. Bellamy was peeling some sort of root vegetable (and really, who kept putting him on cooking duty), when he saw Clarke (and Finn) walk up to Murphy purposefully, in the way that she did, and insinuate herself in his space.

She stood in front of him and Murphy picked at the dirt under his nails absently. Finn stood behind her and glowered. She hardened. “What’s going on with you and Bellamy?”

Murphy rolled his eyes. “Lots of balls touching.”

Bellamy nearly skinned the flesh off his thumb.

She frowned, Finn mimicking the look a moment later. “I’m serious,” she said, very seriously, and Bellamy rolled his eyes.

Murphy sneered. “Who says I’m not? Look, the only reason you’ve noticed anything at all is because he’s the only one who talks to me.”

Bellamy frowned. He wasn’t the only one who talked to Murphy, was he? Possibly the most friendly, but definitely not the only one. Right?

Finn laughed, that terribly friendly and disingenuous way he did. “Not like you can blame us.”

Clarke looked concerned, but Bellamy realized, irritably, that she wasn’t concerned about Murphy. “I can’t say any of us are too eager to get to know you better.”

Murphy nodded, false understanding plastered on his face. “Oh, yeah, of course. Finn kills eighteen, you kill hundreds, but the two I killed came from space, so I’m evil.”

Clarke crossed her arms over her chest. “We did what we did to protect ourselves.”

Murphy nodded again, fake agreeable smile on his face. “Of course, because you were provoked. It’s almost like you were hung unexpectedly by people you thought you could trust.”

“That’s not the same,” she snapped. She unfolded her arms slowly. “If you do anything to Bellamy, you’ll regret it.”

Bellamy suddenly regretted the way he had talked to Atom. Shovel talks were clearly way worse than he had thought.

Murphy sneered again. “If I do anything to Bellamy,” he said, “I might as well just kill myself before you get around to it.”

Clarke huffed and walked away, but guilt lined her face. Finn sneered at him. “You might as well.” He followed quickly after Clarke and Murphy deflated, slumping in to himself and then backing away slowly, back towards his tent.

After his shift butchering a bunch of vegetables, Bellamy headed towards Murphy’s tent, which was situated at the very edge of the camp, a bottle of stolen moonshine secured under his arm.

“JM, let me in!” he called when he reached Murphy’s door. He could hear Murphy roll over and he knew he could just bust into the tent, but if nothing else his mother had taught him manners, so he tried again. “Barrie, let me the fuck in, it’s cold.”

Murphy groaned. “I refuse to believe you are too useless to open a tent flap by yourself.”

Bellamy grinned, opening the tent. Murphy was splayed out on the mostly empty floor of the tent. It was so sparsely covered that Bellamy frowned, even as he tried to find a place to sit. It was tiny and empty. Bellamy resolved to start giving things to Murphy so his tent wasn’t the most depressing place on Earth.

“Brought booze,” Bellamy said as he nudged Murphy to sit up and make space. Murphy made a grabby hands motion while sitting up, making his reluctance abundantly clear.

“Gimme gimme.” 

Bellamy collapsed on the ground, handing Murphy the bottle and trying valiantly not to watch Murphy’s throat bob as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful of alcohol. “I heard what you said to Clarke. And Finn.”

Murphy shrugged and passed the bottle back. Their fingers barely brushed, but he watched Murphy shudder with it. “Told them the truth.”

Bellamy took a large swig and considered Murphy for a long moment. “I’m gonna be really mad if you get yourself killed on my behalf.”

Murphy leaned forward, up onto his knees and crawled to Bellamy, leaning over him and taking the bottle out of his loose grip. “To die would be an awfully big adventure,” he murmured, and took a big gulp. Without sitting back, he said, “never learned how to read that good, but remember every word anyone’s ever told me. My mom used to read me books and I’d just recite them back to her like nothing.” He laughed, ugly, pained. “It’s a fucking useless talent, but at least it means I remember everything I have to pay penance for, every cruel word.”

“Don’t die for me. Don’t.” Bellamy leaned forward and he was so close he could smell the alcohol on Murphy’s breath, wanted to taste it from his lips, wanted to be with this Murphy, this stupid young genius of a man who made his chest ache. “Surely you know what a kiss is,” he quoted, leaning even closer to Murphy, aware of how cheap a line that was.

Murphy’s face split into a grin and Bellamy could feel him barely keeping himself from laughter. “I shall know when you give it to me,” he replied, and then sighed when Bellamy did.

Murphy’s hair was surprisingly soft under his fingers and he wanted to keep his hands tangled in it forever, which was ridiculous and silly and wonderful, and his lips were chapped, but oh so pliant underneath his own. Bellamy reluctantly pulled away, acutely aware that he shouldn’t have started this. He watched as Murphy’s eyes fluttered open and he swallowed hard, licking his lips and pushing his hair back as he sat up. 

He reached out blindly for the bottled and retrieved it, taking another sip of the alcohol before passing it back to Bellamy, who chugged. They grinned at each other, then yawned in unison.

Murphy smiled almost shyly at him, tinged with self-deprecation. “Stay here tonight?”

Bellamy’s tent would have been more comfortable. He suspected that the grass would have been more comfortable. “Yeah, okay,” he said, and let Murphy arrange them on the dirt floor. “Goodnight, Barrie.”

“Goodnight, Bell.” He wrapped himself around Bellamy like a blanket, and just before Bellamy faded to sleep he thought he heard Murphy say, “To live will be an awfully big adventure,” but he supposed, he might have just been optimistic.

Murphy woke up screaming. Or, Bellamy woke up to Murphy screaming, and Murphy woke up with Bellamy’s hands resting on his cheek. His eyes were wild, staring up into Bellamy’s like he was floating away into space and Bellamy tried his hardest to ground him.

“It’s okay, you’re okay, I’m here, you’re okay,” Bellamy babbled, feeling as helpless as he had when Octavia was a baby and would cry. Murphy was crying, too, great heaves of his stomach and chest, face wet with sweat and tears.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Murphy said after an eternity. He let Bellamy enfold him in his arms, curling into his side.

“Don’t be sorry. Does this happen a lot?”

Murphy hummed in consideration. “There are a lot of voices in my head. Perfectly remembered voices spouting perfectly remembered words.” He burrowed his head into Bellamy’s neck. “A lot of voices and a lot of hurt, and a lot of very logical reasons why that was my fault, too.”

Bellamy shook his head. “Don’t listen to them. Don’t you ever listen to them.” He sighed, feeling helpless again. “Use that amazing memory of yours, remember this. Remember me telling you I care about you, because I do.”

Murphy uncurled from him slightly, so he could meet Bellamy’s eyes. “Doesn’t work like that.”

“Make it,” Bellamy demanded. “Ignore any voice that doesn’t tell you how much I think you’re worth, because they’re lying, Barrie.”

Murphy was crying, silent, but the tears hit Bellamy’s shirt on their way down. “You make my head hurt, Bell.”

Bellamy thought that was fair, because Murphy made his heart hurt.

He heard about the fight Murphy got into with Kane from Raven, who was kind and concerned and smart enough to realize what was going on between him and Murphy before he really did. She found him in his tent, and suggested he locate Murphy, while giving him the highlights.

Highlights which included a laundry list of Murphy’s sins, and Kane’s solemn proclamation that if they were still on the Ark, Murphy would’ve been floated by now. 

Bellamy ran.

He found him sitting at the very top of the wreckage of the Ark. He was perched precariously on a square of metal barely large enough to sit on, no room for Bellamy, but he didn’t stop his ascent.

It was windy, and Bellamy’s hair whipped around him like a cliché, Murphy was even worse. He wanted to think the tears in Murphy’s eyes were from that, too, but he was optimistic, not delusional.

He had to stop a few feet below Murphy because there weren’t any more handholds, and there was no space next to him.

“Barrie, you’re going to fall!”

Murphy smiled viciously, all teeth. “The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease for ever to be able to do it.” He looked down at Bellamy. “This morning I thought I could fly. I was wrong.”

Bellamy clung to the Ark and thought frantically for a moment. “It is only the gay and innocent and heartless who can fly,” he quoted after too long a moment.

Murphy barked an ugly laugh. “Two of three.”

Bellamy smirked. “You’re only one of three. Unless you’re a virgin.”

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

Murphy rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t mean gay like that, anyway, idiot.”

Bellamy smiled. “Come the fuck down and you can lecture me on colloquialisms until the morning, okay?”

Murphy grimaced. “There are so many voices in my head.” He rested his head in his hands and swayed slightly, and Bellamy felt fresh panic blossom in his chest. Murphy was going to fall.

“Tune them out. My voice is the most important.”

Murphy locked eyes with him again. “Prince Bellamy.”

“That’s right. You have to listen to me. Please come down. Please.” Bellamy watched as Murphy turned to look at the ground for a few moments he was so sure he had made the wrong call, that Murphy was going to try to fly.

“Okay,” Murphy said decisively, then looked at him, expectant. “You have to move, Bell, you’re blocking the only way down.”

Keeping Murphy’s eyes locked with his, Bellamy slowly headed down the husk of the Ark, Murphy following awkwardly, back to the Ark. When they reached the ground, Bellamy was so tired and sore with exhaustion he almost passed out where he stood.

Murphy stood unsure at the bottom of the improvised ladder, arms crossed and body tense. 

“Let’s go get some of my blankets. Bring them to your tent.”

They moved silently, Murphy still tense and awkward. Bellamy grabbed some blankets and furs, some food he had stashed away, and placed some in murphy’s arms, leading him back to Murphy’s tent.

Settled, back there again, Murphy asked, “Bell, did you like me better before? Before everyone hated me and hung me and the grounders…” he trailed off, like he usually did when his time with the grounders was brought up. “Did you like me better?”

Bellamy thought, unbidden, “Every child is affected thus the first time he is treated unfairly. All he thinks he has a right to when he comes to you to be yours is fairness. After you have been unfair to him he will love you again, but will never afterwards be the same boy,” and he thought of Murphy, who could barely read, but he who loved stories and loved contact and people, who was so young and drank himself to sleep and woke up with nightmares chasing him into day.

He reached out and grasped Murphy to his chest, and hoped that some part would get easier, but he was never that optimistic. “I like you any way I can have you, Barrie.”

Murphy accepted that, let himself melt into Bellamy’s chest. It was okay, for now. It would be okay. Bellamy would make it okay. It was the least Murphy deserved.

**Author's Note:**

> come prompt/talk/yell at me on [tumblr](http://www.racetrackthehiggins.tumblr.com) and maybe if you like it reblog it? <3


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